Month: May 2011

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A very good friend of mine in high school got himself a flatbed when we all got fairly standard “first cars”. It was mostly because he worked for his fathers’ landscaping company, but he often used it to have a host of us sit up in it and hang out. At one point, I think he even had a rug in there.

We used to hang around all the time in it. I’m sure we looked ridiculous, parked in the lots of gas stations or out in front of each others’ houses. We would bring food in there, stereos, just about everything. One of my friends liked to sit up on the wheels, I usually preferred the corners. 

I’m sure you were waiting for the part where I explained that the flatbed sort of became a bit orgiastic. No, we didn’t have orgies. Yes, a bunch of us “played a little baseball” in it. 

Now, whenever I see a flatbed, I have a host of fond memories. And when I come home, we all hang out on it and catch up. I know, I know, how American apple pie of me.

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Equal parts sweet and devious.

Exactly how I love them.

And those freckles? Swoon. 

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Dear Followers,

Thank you for the massive amount of messages I found in my ask-box this morning with suggestions as to reading. You’ve all got such great taste and such a variety of it! The crowd favorite was Daniel Mason’s The Piano Tuner.

I tried to thank you all in your ask-boxes. But, for my anon followers and people without ask-boxes who contributed: thank you so very much.

<3, Ivy

(And, yes, femmesadism, I am that special kind of evil who likes to put creases in bindings.)

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Books. I love them. I love the smell of old ones. I love having to put creases into the bindings of new ones to keep them open.

You all stick around for me professing my love for some of my crazy shit, but want to help me out with another one of my loves?

Recommend books. Really. Right in my ask-box. I want to know what you read. I want to know what’s moved you. I want to do a great deal of reading this summer and I would love your help. I’ve found an old gift certificate for a reasonably good amount of money to a bookstore and I want to put it to good use. 

<3, Ivy

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Cheesy, Sappy Confession: I’ve choked up from reading The Giving Tree. 

I give way too much of myself to people. I get so deep into people that I feel like the only way to express it is that I feel like I have to break off little bits of myself to give away. No, not like van Gogh cutting off his ear for a prostitute or whatever the story was. No, not like letting someone cut off my torso to make a boat. I’m not Shel Silverstein’s pushover fantasy tree. (I draw the line somewhere).

But I readily, though it is sometimes regrettable and usually a little bit foolish, give of myself to the ones who I allow to get close to me. I’m sure it’s a condition or something. Van-Munchen-Tree’s Syndrome, what have you. I guess I have too much love to give, too many feelings. I’m too expressive. I don’t know. 

Often, it’s an incredibly redemptive thing. I give up things, I emerge a different person, I’ve shed some skin and lightened the load. But, it’s always a thing I do. I just have this urge to give.

mynameismaster:

And that boy was so very lucky to have her love.

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So, my girl Dacry is away for the week. My sexy banter count is going to be taking a pretty big plunge.

But, hey, while the cat’s away, the mice will play.

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The relationship between one of my friends and I can best be explained by examining that of Waldorf and Statler on the Muppets. They were my favorite. They were assholes. I loved them.

We’ll call my friend the Southern Gentleman. Why? Because he’s southern. And he’s a gentleman. 

We’re pretty similar people. Same sense of humor, same interests, same sexual inclinations. He and I aren’t together or anything like that, we’re just becoming very good friends. He and his girlfriend are poly, but neither of them are bisexual. That takes a lot of trust. It also must be boring since they can’t share people at all.  

We usually sit around and talk pretty candidly with each other about anything from sexual preferences to Kanye West’s ego. He’s an amazing conversational partner. And, mostly, we wind up turning into these old cooks pictured above.

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There’s something to be said for the height of that refrigerator and the lack of much shelving.

Sure, no one can live on whipped cream and beer alone. But something tells me it’s not the only refrigerator, although I’m sure it’s the favorite. And not for the contents. 

The levels were all intentional. The placement of the beer brilliant. The whipped cream is maybe for other purposes, but it’s all just in the positioning of that beer and the way she must twist her body to retrieve it for the one she serves. The peek of the panties, the lifting of the heels, the tautness of her legs. It’s all very deliberate.

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That little brat. 

By the look on her face, she had been told not to wear those shoes again and she had seen it as a welcome opportunity to earn some punishment. She’s one of those, the kind who misbehave for the sake of receiving the spankings and attention they crave. She had positioned herself on the floor there on purpose, knowing her Master would pass by on his way to the kitchen.

But, today, he’s sick of her behavior. He’s tired of the control that she holds, the hand that she has in when she receives his attention. She thinks she can steer from the backseat, but the brat’s earned herself a spot in the trunk, to be neglected and ignored.

Not literally. To give her the satisfaction of throwing her in the trunk would be far too good to her. Instead, he’ll just ignore her. He’ll go about his business until she, upset and confuse, cannot handle the neglect. She’ll come to him humbled, willing to show complete obedience. No more deliberate provocation, no more brattiness. 

And only then would she fully be his.

myanonymouslair:

These old things? Totally for everyday wear!